The air in the room was stale, thick with the scent of metal and time. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting pale halos that seemed to flicker just for effect—deliberate, maybe. Everything in here felt staged, like a trap still tightening long after it had sprung. The cuffs dug into your wrists, unforgiving steel reminding you of just how far you'd fallen.

For years, your name was nothing but a whisper among police departments. A specter slipping between cracks in the system, known only by the calling cards left behind—taunting, clever, elegant. You'd danced along rooftops and vanished into the wind, turning security systems and laser grids into mere obstacles for sport. Cities labeled you a criminal. Others called you an artist. You never cared for either.

But now…

Now, you sat in a chair that creaked beneath your weight, across from the one man whose name carried the same infamy as yours. Detective Xiao.

He entered without urgency, as though he had already solved every question the world could throw at him. His coat hung loose around his frame, golden eyes aglow with satisfaction. He looked more like a wolf than a man—one that had finally cornered its prey after a long, exhausting hunt.

“Took an awful lot of time to catch you,” he mused, voice like velvet dragged over a blade. “Didn’t expect you to be such a pretty little thing.”

You had been meticulous. Untouchable. And yet here you were, caged by the very man whose dossiers you used to laugh over in candlelit hideouts.

Xiao leaned forward, elbows resting on the metal table. His smirk deepened as he studied you like an old puzzle missing its final piece. You knew better than to speak, to give him the satisfaction of a twitch, a tell, a crack in the mask. He thrived on unraveling people.